Sunday, June 19, 2016

Chronicling the Neverland Kick

Listen to Enter Sandman by Shel.

Watch a scene of tinkerbell losing her light.

Listen to Lost Boy by Ruth B

References - Hook with robin Williams, Finding Neverland, Pan 2015, BBC Pan series, Peter and Wendy by Barrie.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Demographic Advertising to Me.

I recently changed my Pandora profile settings which have remained intact for probably 5 years? 4 years?

I am 32, lived in Tennessee for many years, now live in Michigan.  But after moving to Michigan I realized how the ads tracked me.  Always a southern accent, usually something rustic/rural that fit the zip code I lived in, and to top it all off, after I purchased a used vehicle from a big car dealership the advertising changed significantly.   The new advertising for me is/was... southern accents, hospitality, trust, better deals with a focus on cars, credit loans and insurance.

So I changed my settings.  Now I live in Los Angeles 90049 I'm 20 years old and wondering which new propaganda will be pestering me.


Has a best selling author written with smiley's and all in internet chat style yet?

Tuesday, November 04, 2014

2 years no posts.  8 years on, less than 50 days sober.

Friday, June 07, 2013

Reviews? News Articles? Chronicles of witnessed masturbation circles? Writing? 

Wasting away.  Chest pains continue, weak then sharper, right in the heart, sometimes swirling away into the chest cavity somewhere bumping into a rib then through some veins into the upper arms.  Put me under, i'll sleep forever if I can dream.

Challenges? Assignments? Motivation? 
Imagine if each desire had to fight and struggle through all other desires before it even got the title of desire.  Each desire had to prove it was actually a desire.  Thoughts for me who says he wants to do what he does not.  

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Getting back in the mood

Still drunk, yes.  But the desire to write again is back.  Fueled by looming disaster, life ruining debt and eternal procrastination I want to write again, somehow not for anyone else this time but just for me.  I heard it takes 15 days to form a habit.  This is day one.

A commercial is on my mind today.

I decided to end pretentiousness so I purchased a Mitsubishi.

It's over!  If you have a pretentious friend just comment with the address.  For a low rate I will arrange for an ostentatious arrival at their most distinctive crib and with a subtle honk of the least obnoxious horn I will summon your friend to the driveway.  At the precise moment your pretentious friend sights my Mitsubishi, all their pretentiousness will fade away like the life faded out of your most high born hot blooded red-cheeked relative, 30 seconds later the cold white and dead stiff corpse, that you can visualize now will be imprinted on your friends face.

Still drunk,
Not satisfactory,
Need records,
Health concerns are real,
I forgot to call my Mother on her birthday and she specifically asked me to that,
Can no longer read with both eyes opne post is gettiggng worse not better so will stop editing now.              

Wednesday, January 12, 2011


I deal with irrationality, with degrees of unreasonableness,

5 years later and still drunk

Wednesday, May 09, 2007


Glazed Eyes and Donuts, Hiccup!

Sunday, January 28, 2007


As I slipped into the TV,
My heart filled with glee.
Created by the PR industry,
This world captures me.

Here’s herpes-free cream,
Sold by that girl in my dream.
She’s such a cute flirt
Tampax beneath her skirt.

Happy runway walk whirls,
Flaunt flawless curls
She winks with a twirl
and blows me her covergirl

She’ll fall in love with me
All I need is Kay’s Jewelry.
You don’t need personality
Just Tommy’s name on your T.

Sex us, Sell us a Lexus
Create my next
New need. Feed your ancient
Greed. Freed to buy as I please,
I slaved to sell your tease.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Gaming: The Room Without the Box

His stomach grumbled. His lower intestine tied itself in knots, his colon mustered all its strength and bellowed for freedom. His neck muscles squeezed his spine with all their might, his shoulder muscles wrestled his shoulder blade. His finger joints ached with a prolonged sensation of dullness.

His body was in revolt, but he couldn't move. A small black video game controller had magically shackled his hands to a black wire carrying an electrical pulse that forced him to gaze passively, helplessly at moveable pixels, flashing bright colors and images bouncing around in an enlightened box, which was enshrined as the centerpiece of the room.

He squirmed and wriggled like a sleepy child trying to escape the unwelcome rays of morning sunshine; the volume was too loud but his hands were still shackled by the video game controller, and the remote control was far, far out of reach, on the coffee table where his criss-crossed ankles cut off the blood circulating in his sleepy toes. The video game controller's sleek, black body forced his thumbs into unusual stress positions. It was torture.

His glossy eyes crossed and his eyelashes morphed into rusty corrugated iron bars found on jail cells in rural Kentucky. Blinking was a felony. His skin died between his nose and cheek; it rotted, it festered, it constructed giant red pus-filled volcanoes that wore home-made signs protesting the video game controller, and the black wire, and the electrical pulses and the flickering pixels in the enlightened box. He farted again. His colon regretted its comfy position on a plushy cotton couch and craved the cold ceramic seat in the next room. The room with cool running tap water. The room with soap. The room with toothpaste. The room with shaving cream. The room with deodorant. The room without the box.

Sunday, May 07, 2006


Dozing in my hammock, I awake from my concrete slumber. Brush away the pine straw and watch a thousand ants following pheromone highways. Hop across the creek and spot a grasshopper chomping on a blade of grass. Squint into the flickering sunlight at powdery yellow butterfly wings flapping through the forest.

Pick an ant and watch it taste sweet tree nectar. Burp out a gross bark splinter floating in the sticky amber and bump into an old friend dragging a white flower bud, no time for chit-chat, you go left, Ill go right. Round the tree trunk, dive into a pinecone, stop to smell the mushroom and scurry beneath the pine straw. Merge onto the pheromone highway, exit under grass blade 23. Swallow a fat ball of snail slime and its back to work. Push one last dirt clump up the hill and off to bed. Forget about the stomachache, life isnt fair. Look theres a sheep, run six meters east and climb a blade of grass. Feel the hot stench of sheep breath caressing my exposed abdomen and clamp onto the grass. Lock the mandible in place and prepare for death. Wish I could have been the queen.

The idea here was that this ant is infected with the Lancet Fluke parasite.

While writing this I became fascinated by the idea of a story written from the perspective of someone or something suffering a delusion, and being unable to escape that delusion, or even recognize that it is a delusion. Several difficulties arise, but the primary one, is how to let the reader realize that the author, or ant, is delusional. I could resort to making it obvious, by a series of contradictions or memory lapses, illogical thoughts, but the story seems to lose some of its flavor, especially in cases where the delusion might not be well known or is shared by the general public. Perhaps I can do no better than simply rereading Notes From Underground.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

A Debonair Fop

There once was a debonair fop
Who proved the sun will go, “pop!”
Oh, it will be sunny
But it won’t be too funny
‘Cuz all life on earth will stop.

Friday, April 14, 2006


A string of Limericks

In an extended orgasm,
It slipped into a chasm.
Which spilled out pink juice,
Echoed screams so profuse,
And caused a lower back spasm.

The wet spot was cold,
And my lover looked old,
So I asked her to leave,
Which she couldn’t believe,
Despite her clitoral mold.

She left in a huff,
With that old floppy muff,
And I smiled with glee,
Never feeling so free,
To finally dance in the buff.

“Illusive truth,
“You’re so uncouth,
“Your forecast is dismal;
“Your presence: abysmal!
“Wait, Give me DNA proof!”

That can’t be my child,
My sperm swims so mild.
“Father’s demanding a marriage,
“Either that or a fetal miscarriage."
“Kill it.” I said, and she smiled.

Abortions are cheap,
And the unborn don’t weep.
But what of the soul?
It too, we'll throw in a hole,
Besides, babies disturb my sleep.

Now don’t shed a tear,
See the doctor is near,
“Are those instruments cold?”
“Yes, but this will save gold.”
“Wait Doc, can a fetus feel fear?”

“Well, their blood does boil,
“And they sometimes recoil
“From probing scalpels,
“Or even bad smells.
“But the process they never will spoil.

"You’re thinking of going to mass?
"Look doc! She needs some more gas!"
“Hey Stop! It’s my womb!
"I’m not a living tomb!”
“Shush, there’s no need to be crass.”

Saturday, April 08, 2006


Abortions are cheap,
And the unborn don't weep.
But what of the soul?
It too, we can throw in a hole,

I like the image there but the rhythm is awry. I considered “it too, we’ll throw in a hole” and “just toss it down a hole.” Neither seems fitting. By the way, my recent rhyming spree was prompted by my reading of Goethe’s Faust, which was prompted by my reading of Marlowe’s Faust. What are you reading? I know I already mentioned this book to you a long time ago, but I wish both of you would consider reading “The Sorrows of Young Werther” by Goethe. Its not long and I couldn’t put it down, I read it for about 3 hours then stopped to watch a movie, but stopped the movie and went back to the book, besides you can easily find that book in the Cleveland library.

Unrelated sidenote: Did you know that Caesar was a celebrated fop? Many of the primary sources we have describe Caesar as “wearing his belt so low” or “loosely belted.” His dashing sense of style was deemed immoral by the traditional roman moralists ~ Cicero for example ~ but some prominent patricians on his mother’s side thought the youth’s dramatic flair would be welcomed by the “fashionably effete” Asians (Modern Day Turks).

I recently saw a special on the history channel about Turkish history and the stereotype is not altogether unjustified, a great many Turks are effeminate and dainty. Those tiny trim mustaches seen on Turkish villains in old British films were surprisingly consistent in the history channel’s presentation, not that I would put it past the history channel to consciously reinforce degrading stereotypes with the aim of barbarizing foreigners, regardless of their historically rich civilization. Although that presumes that the history channel is aware of just how irreparably degrading a bad mustache is in the eyes of the American Public.

The History channel’s most recent atrocity is a 4-hour long special on the History of Alien Encounters.

Caesar impressed the Asian’s so much that he was mocked his whole life for taking it up the ass from a King named Nicomedes. He also detested body hair and kept his entire body shaved, which might have been a difficult task during the year when he was appointed flamen dialis (Priest of Jupiter) because only a freeman using a bronze knife could cut his hair. But then again he was always a disrespectful little rule breaker anyway.

Marcus Antony found it greatly amusing to vomit in public. The people’s tribune was known to vomit on the Senate floor in order to disrupt unfavorable proceedings, which of course must have been hilarious, the only bodily fluid exhibiting more disrespect that I can think of would be excrement. In the future, I look forward to arguments about which bodily fluid conveys the greatest amount of disrespect. As I see it, there are only 3 candidates: piss, shit, and vomit.

At first I thought R. Kelly would qualify as the most famous expert on the subject of public degradation but then I realized that the U.S. military puts him in a distant second with all kinds of ingenious degradations, being naked on the bottom of a shit covered doggy pile, for example, would surely provide a lifetime of humiliating nightmares. Imagine an Oscar winner, pissing, shitting or vomiting on stage. It’s such fun to play that out in your head.

I wonder if modern society will ever return to the physical vulgarities ancient societies were so familiar with? During a famine preceding the French Revolution, a nobleman named Joseph Foulon said, “If the people are hungry, let them eat grass. Wait till I am minister, I will make them eat hay.” Well, the grass eating peasants get their hands on him on July 22, 1789, drag him to an infamous streetlight and on the 3rd attempt (first two ropes broke) finally succeed in hanging him. His body goes crowd surfing, his mouth is stuffed with grass and his head goes up on a pike. Comic vengeance smells so sweet! Perhaps I am that much more brutal than the rest of society? but I long for such physical vulgarities. Maybe that longing does not go so far as public beheadings, but I would love to see Clooney vomit at some dignified TV gala.

All civilizations were at an earlier time fascinated with blood, and most religions use it as an atonement of some type, and we Christians can settle for nothing less than the blood of God.

I’m just bursting with trivialities about Roman culture. I am bored and weary. Work is more horrible than I remembered. I sit next to a 60-year old Jamaican named Norma, and we argue about whether the student has demonstrated a minimal or general understanding of the text. Wretched drudgery and toil for naught.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006


You mistakenly assume that if I “learn more about oppression and injustices” I would care. I know all about oppression and injustices. I am from South Africa, where I was an active part of the white minority who viciously oppressed the black majority. I watched neckings occur less than 1 kilometer from my house. You probably are unaware of this technique called necking, allow me to explain.

It is used to discourage rebellion by instilling fear. First you have to tie the black up, then you erect a small tower of car tires, build it up to the height of the black’s neck. Next you jam the black inside the stack of tires. You must make sure that the arms are tightly secured to the torso, otherwise the black will not fit inside the tires. And the feet should be bound as well, otherwise they can usually knock the pile over, which is unpleasant for the audience. If you haven't already un-gagged the black, it is best to do it now, the screams of horror and dread always heighten the tension and attract extra attention.

Then you drench the black in petrol (gasoline). You can let them scream for a while but not too long because if you overdo it, it can backfire and cause some sympathy in the crowd. (Perhaps these sympathizers would be members of your Justice club?) Then you light it on fire. But you must be careful not to stand too close when you light it because you could accidentally singe some hair, and then everybody makes fun of you because you can't do neckings properly. You cannot leave immediately because some vigilantes occasionally try to kick the pile over and drag the black out, which is stupid because usually these people just end up getting petrol all over their hands and burning themselves a little, but the black will still die in the scorched grass, so it’s extremely important to stay long enough to make sure that there is no hope of saving the black. But you should leave before the authorities arrive, this way they can claim that they didn’t know about it and that they followed proper procedure, and nobody has to bother with the inconvenience of being driven to the police station, being booked and then driven back home. Which is pointless and it always takes far too long. Besides, even if the police take their time to arrive, the smell is unbearable, and all the smoke from rubber and black skin is unhealthy to breath. I’ve only seen this done three times in my life, but I was watching very intently, so I feel quite confident about this description.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Political Science 101

After studying political science for 4 years, the most valuable piece of information I aquired is this:

Power structures are not moral agents.

Saturday, November 19, 2005


I'm reading Goethe's Faust, and I can't stop the rhyming in my head.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Stretching Sorrow

The passionate man dumbfounds me. That sweeping, untethered, tune-blown type of a Romeo or Werther is astounding. I feel their magnificent presence wash over me, like "here I stand" in wet concrete, quite tethered, blown nowhere, in awe, like the first time I saw an airplane fly. Astounded, mouth agape in a "How..." shape, unable to even complete the question. These types, they soar, they dance like clouds, now stormy, now wispy, untouchable, their misty souls elude all solid forms, understanding them is like grasping fog in a fist, the tighter a mind squeezes the less there is to hold. Why am I so different?

Tuesday, September 27, 2005


“You’re a very hostile young man.”

From the womb,


Hit it,

Hot, Breath, Tease, Indulgent, Joke, Culpable, Promiscuous, Profligate, Deceit, Selfish, Lonely, Tangled, Sex, Yearning, Moaning, Touching, Penetrating, Crying, Screaming, Tragedy, Pregnancy, Surrender, Captivity, Bound, Torment, Frivolous, Flippant, Magnitude, Sever, Nuptials, Perception,

Well-dressed friends shoulder the empty coffin.
Sheik females painting dead faces with painted smiles.

Overjoyed caretaker escorts a pregnant witches womb down into the hole
Undug graves demarcated on either side of a cloaked clergyman.

Scene: Midnight in a graveyard, a most peculiar setting for a wedding, candles flicker, smoke curls into a cloudy, moonlight sky.

Graveyard Nuptials

A sweaty, stinking, screaming supermodel bleeds on her wedding dress at the feet of a heavenly-minded soothsayer while birthing a slimy infant gravedigger. With divine duty and fiendish fury, the mischievous newborn rolls into the dirt, crawls to a shovel, and unearths graves full of masochistic wedding accessories before slicing his umbilical cord. The scission sends beauty cascading out of mother’s navel. Muddied maroon blood splatters out of her bruised vagina and seeps into her white woven wedding rag. Growing out of her pelvis a liquefied blood blob slithers round her breasts, up her neck, across her veil, staining it jet black. Her veil disintegrates, her face decays, her vainglorious volition revealed! Her ecstatic smile emanates all her narcissistic love as she gazes into the groom’s stunned blue eyes. Shocked, staggering backwards he awaits the resurrection of his fantastic reality. His hideously unveiled bride draws near; yearning, craving sexual satisfaction she seductively moans for the kiss of love. Lurching back, he stumbles over the bastard gravedigger, landing six feet under he laughs in denial, “Life’s a graveyard, dig it.”

Written fall 2003

My Atheistic Moment

I experienced my first truly atheistic thought, or more accurately, an atheistic wave of terror overcame me. The actual feeling, or thought, (I cannot tell which, or dissect the moment any further, the experience was mental and emotional but definitely not separable into distinct spheres, the entire experience lasted only a second as I suppressed the horrifying conjecture immediately, my body literally spasmed in dread) came about accidentally. Various mental images preceded it. That night I watched War of The Worlds, it was pathetic, maybe Mr. Wells tells it better than Cruise and Spielberg, but this movie had no character development at all, or story for that matter, our hero is a spineless coward, all the relational problems have depressingly cliché endings, happy of course, and the little girl’s screams account for half the dialogue. The movie opens with a shot of one microorganism squirming about, and then it zooms out to show hundreds, then millions of squiggly microbes, we continue to zoom out and eventually see that they are all contained within a miniscule water droplet on a leaf.

This scene, these invisible amebas form the starting image of that scary thought. The second conception present was from The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoevsky quotes a Turgenev character who claims that after you die you become nothing more than the “burdocks growing on your grave.” Third, the familiar bible phrase, “dust to dust”, and the creation of Adam, in the same dust whirlwind I have imagined since hearing the story in my childhood. So these thoughts are swirling, thoughts swirl right? or at least that’s what Rowling’s pensive would have us believe, the Half-blood prince was rather disappointing, Harry Potter and Half a Story I’d say, no conflict at all? a grand set-up, …with these thoughts swirling, the triggering synapses spark! I consider Aristotle’s diagnosis, “man is by nature a political animal,” and the animal in mind at the time was those microscopic blobs, jerking aimlessly in a puddle of sludge. All at once, I imagine my entire existence consisting of an instantaneous evolution from ameba to azalea, parasite to protea (if I have a choice in the matter I’ll grow up as a protea in North America, it’s South Africa’s national flower). Imagine those movie scenes where they film a busy road for one night and then show the film in fast forward so you see the whole night in a few seconds, with thousands of headlights forming streaks of light underneath changing skies revealing speedy time travel. That is how I imagined my life, an animalistic blur between poles of invisibility and cemetery decoration.

As I said before, I had an accompanying physical reaction, I hunched, and tightened my back and shoulder muscles, call it a vigorous shudder. I repressed it quickly with familiar arguments: my moral capacity could not evolve; evolution could not produce emotion, etc. But the psychological defenses fail, the sheer magnitude of the possibility overwhelms rationality and hope. In other words, more precise but less eloquent: the “what if” overwhelms the “it couldn’t be” and the “that means … and I don’t want it to be that way.”

It is the same with other speculations of mine; hell for instance, the mere possibility of everlasting suffering might be worth manipulating belief, or worth that “gruesome continual suicide of reason.” And if I fake it really well, could that save me? In retrospect, I am amazed that I used to believe that salvation could occur instantly, in one moment of sincere belief. How come that moment gets eternal fame? That belief of instant salvation recognizes the peculiar structure of time. For instance, a person can “live for those moments” or define their life as a success or failure based on the experience of a few seconds compared to years of mediocrity.

What if all our moral speculation is as silly as an ant contemplating the eternal implications of stealing the crumbs from my cake? What difference is there between me and that ant if I progress from sperm to corpse to flower? What will morality mean then? Decidedly nothing! After blabbering a reassuring string of falsities, I remembered that maybe all my claims, thoughts, desires for justice, good, and truth, serve me best as elaborate self-deceptions which prolong my existence. And that in my weakness I perish precisely when I abandon pretty ideals. O the comforting pages of Beyond Good and Evil are treating me marvelously, from section 59, “It is the profound, suspicious fear of an incurable pessimism that forces whole millennia to bury their teeth in and cling to a religious interpretation of existence: the fear of that instinct which senses that one might get a hold of the truth too soon, before man has become strong enough, hard enough, artist enough.” I was about to explain the quote with insertions into the quote, but suddenly I felt an obligation to the author as the language strikes me so vigorously that I am forced to recognize brilliance. I haven’t felt that in a long time, or rather I grew up with that assumption, I used to be repulsed by the ability to quote a person and “correct” their words simply by putting [it in brackets]. Then I read it everywhere, and now I do it unflinchingly.